Chapter 38: Deep Breath, Chin Up, Eyes Straight
The next morning dawned crisp and clear. The Arl rode down to the frost-rimed village, miraculously energised after the combined efforts of the Ashes and Flora's rejuvenation. A grim-faced and combative Leliana accompanied him, stating loudly that she needed both physical and spiritual cleansing in the Chantry. A grinning Zevran overheard this as he lounged in the main hall, letting out a pointed laugh.
Bann Teagan was overseeing the gathering of supplies for the caravan that would accompany the Wardens and their party to Orzammar. Salted meats, bread and root vegetables were being carefully packed into straw-lined crates. Spare weapons and whetstones were brought up from the armoury and loaded into carts. Pether; the Tranquil who acted as emissary for the Circle, was personally overseeing the addition of his abundant stationary, ledgers and parchment. Several Mabari hounds wandered around, taking mild interest in the preparations and greater interest in the arriving food.
Flora, watching the bustling courtyard from the ramparts, realised that there would be at least another ten additional people accompanying them on the road to the Dwarven capital, in addition to a variety of carts and wagons. She thought back to when they had first started their journey; her, Alistair and Morrigan on the road to Lothering, avoiding puddles and awkward conversation.
In the corner of the main courtyard, Alistair had found some comfort in the familiar routine of morning drill alongside the Arl's knights. Dressed in plain linen attire to blend in, he practised line and formation with the other men and women. Alistair appreciated the instinctual nature of the sword thrusts, the mindlessness inherent in repetitive movement.
Despite living on the road for a month, eating sporadically whenever the opportunity arose, he was surprised to find that he had not lost any of his strength. He had never suffered through a gangly stage as an adolescent, had always been tall and broad-shouldered. It had been his bulky physicality which had first prompted the Chantry to submit Alistair for the notoriously demanding Templar training.
Despite the confusion and complexities of Fereldan politics, which hung over his head like a dark cloud; he found reassurance in the raw power of his body, in the readiness of honed muscle to respond to physical demand.
Now as he faced the sack torso of the training dummy before him, he envisioned Loghain's face on the blank wooden head. Feeling a twist of rage deep in his gut, he raised the sword.
Flora, now sitting on the edge of the ramparts and drumming her heels against the stone, jumped slightly as she heard a deep, dispassionate voice behind her.
"The strength is adequate, but his discipline is shoddy."
She peered over her shoulder to look at Sten, needing to tip her head upwards to take in his full height. He was also watching Alistair assault the training dummy, his eyebrows raised noncommittally.
"Do you plan on doing any training in preparation? At least the other Warden practises combat form. All I see you do is… consume."
Flora shrugged, defensively. "I don't need to practise," she muttered, a distinctly sulky edge to her tone. Sten shot her a look, nostrils flaring. There was silence for a long moment. Beneath them, the training dummy's head, cleaved in two, rolled across the cobblestones.
"How is lingering here going to assist us in the slaying of the Archdemon?" the Qunari asked abruptly. Flora thought for a moment, then pointed down to the goods being loaded into wagons.
"Look, we've got proper supplies now, because we're here. And the Arl will speak for our cause in Denerim. And," she continued triumphantly, remembering. "We've already got the support of the mages, remember?"
"How many mages are there in the Fereldan Circles?" enquired Sten, a hint of curiosity creeping into his tone.
Flora shrugged. "About… eight hundred?" she said, vaguely.
The Qunari shot her a look. "Did you just make that up?"
"Yes." She went slightly pink, prying some moss from the stone with her fingers. "But it'll be enough. Especially if we have the King's army, the elves and the dwarves too. They just need to cut a path for us to get to the Archdemon."
Below them, Alistair lowered the weapon, his sword arm aching. The cobbles were coated with sawdust, before him was an unrecognisable mass of shredded sacking and splintered wood. As he looked up, panting slightly, a golden shield sprang up over the remains of the dummy. He raised his eyes to Flora, who was hanging over the ramparts with a hand outstretched.
"I think your opponent needs a break!" she shouted down at him, and he grinned back up at her.
"Warden Flora?"
The man's voice came from behind her, light and refined. She turned around and came face to face with three men; the Qunari having melted away into the shadows of the tower. Two of the men were clad in Redcliffe livery, flanking the elder in the centre. He was garbed in scarlet velvet, and wore a golden band around his forehead. It took her a moment to recognise Eamon Guerrin in his newly hale and hearty condition.
Immediately Flora was struck with horror at the fact that she had been gawping mindlessly at the Arl of Redcliffe. Not knowing what to do, she resorted to falling to her knees and pressing her forehead against the ramparts. As she stared gloomily down at the flagstones, she recalled performing a similar action in front of King Cailan, on the bridge span at Ostagar. It feels like a lifetime ago, she thought to herself, then realised that the Arl was speaking to her, extending a hand.
"Come, my child. A Grey Warden should bow to no one."
Mutely she clutched his fingers and rose to her feet, just then noticing that Sten had swiftly made himself absent. The Arl smiled at her through his greying beard, and his tone was both solemn and kind.
"I understand that I owe you gratitude on three counts," he continued, while his flanking guards stood silent and dutiful. "You participated in the defence of my village; assisted with my son's sickness; and helped me recover from the maleficar's poison."
She bowed her head, her eyes fixed on the Arl's polished leather boots.
"I was happy to be of assistance," she mumbled, wondering if she needed to suffix her sentences with my lord. Flora wasn't quite sure where an Arl stood in Ferelden's social hierarchy, but she was certain that they were placed infinitely higher than a fisherman's daughter from Herring, Warden or no.
The Arl looked at the top of her head, mahogany hair bundled untidily at the side of her neck, and felt a twinge of puzzlement.
"Look at me, child," he said softly, and she raised her face to him. Eamon gazed at her for a long moment, his brow furrowed, taking in her solemn grey eyes, the long nose, even the angle of her jaw. She looked anxious, clearly worried that she had unwittingly erred.
"There's something familiar about your face," he murmured, almost to himself. "Where are you from?"
"Herring," she said, then grimaced apologetically when he looked oblivious. "It's a village on the north coast."
The Arl frowned, shaking his head. His flanking guards shifted from foot to foot, one of them distracted by a group of hunters passing through the main courtyard below. Two men were carrying a vast wild boar on a stake between them, drawing shouts and catcalls of appreciation.
"Herring? I am not familiar with it."
"It's not far from Highever," she said, and the Arl gave a long sigh of recognition, his eyes shutting for a moment.
"Do you know it now?" she asked tentatively, irrationally hoping that this powerful southern Arl had heard of her nondescript little village.
Arl Eamon gave her a thoughtful look, his head inclining in confirmation.
"I have come to a…sudden realisation, yes," he said quietly, ringed fingers coming up to stroke his beard.
"I understand that you leave for Orzammar tomorrow. Are you satisfied with the supplies we have provided? It is the least we can do, considering what services you and your allies have rendered to us."
Flora bowed her head gratefully, eyes darting down to the main courtyard, where the caravan had almost been prepared.
"Thank you very much for your help," she replied, politely. The Arl nodded back, smiling through his beard at her. He turned towards the edge of the ramparts and leaned against them, looking down into the bustling courtyard.
"Alistair speaks very highly of you," he said after a moment, gesturing down towards the small training area.
Alistair himself was leaning over a water butt, rinsing out his sweat-soaked linen shirt. His shock of dirty blond hair and tan skin- inherited from his father, King Maric – caused him to stand out against the typically paler Fereldan colouring of the other knights. The muscles in his back moved as he wrung out the damp material, his sword leaning against the wooden barrel.
"He does?" Flora repeated, as Alistair sensed eyes on him from above and turned around. Seeing her and the Arl standing together on the ramparts, he raised a hand in greeting.
"Yes, he is effusive."
Flora, who didn't understand the word, hoped that he would go on to clarify. Fortunately, Arl Eamon did.
"He said that you are his map and compass."
Seeing her frown, the Arl continued softly, watching her face.
"That you give him both purpose and direction."
She stared up at him, her pale grey eyes pensive. He smiled, inclining his head in a gesture of gratitude. The weak winter sun glinted off the burnished band he wore around his forehead.
"I am grateful to you, my child. Unfortunately I believe that Alistair has always felt unwanted, which I am in no small part responsible for. His father rejected him, I know that he blamed me for sending him away to the Chantry. I'm afraid that before the Warden-Commander recruited him, he felt nothing more than a burden to everyone. He must have taken Duncan's death very badly."
Flora, who had always been confident in the love of her parents even through the four years of scorn at the Circle, nodded mutely. The Arl sighed, turned to look over Lake Calenhad. The sunlight reflected off the still surface of the water, flat and bright as a mirror.
"And now he feels as if he is being chosen for something that he doesn't want and has never wanted. I, in part, am to blame for that too."
Inclining his head, Eamon Guerrin said no more but continued his patrol. As he disappeared within one of the castle towers alongside his escort; Flora was left alone with her thoughts on the ramparts.
After a few moments, she descended the crumbling stone steps that led down into the main courtyard. Avoiding two maidservants packing the last of the salted meat into a wooden crate, she crossed the flagstones towards the training area.
Alistair, who had just finished pulling on the damp shirt, smiled at her as she approached with determined stride.
"What was the Arl talking to you abou- " he started, his words abruptly cut off when she threw her arms around his neck.
Despite their weeks of huddling together at night, Alistair and Flora did not tend to embrace each other during the day. It was still a rare enough phenomenon that Alistair could remember each individual occurrence; back to that first awkward moment in Lothering's Chantry when she had spontaneously put her arms about his waist and he had gone rigid with embarrassment.
Now Alistair had no hesitation in embracing his sister-warden's narrow waist in return; he held her, feeling her face against his damp shoulder. She still didn't say anything, simply clung to him as a drowning man would a chunk of driftwood. He didn't speak, not wanting to do anything that might cause her to pull away from him.
They remained in this way for several minutes, while the bustle of the courtyard went on around them. The last supplies were loaded onto the caravan, while food for the villagers' feast was brought in from nearby farmsteads.
Finally Flora drew away a little, moving her hands to his shoulders and looking up at him. Alistair gazed back at her, torn between a variety of conflicting feelings. She's beautiful, he thought suddenly, staring down at her solemn, fine-boned face. How have I never realised this before? Maker's Breath, I'm an idiot.
She didn't say anything, offered no words of explanation for the sudden display of affection. Her eyes flickered to the side and he saw that she had been distracted by a giant wheel of cheese, carried by two people with some difficulty. Smiling up at him with a slightly self-conscious shrug of apology, she kissed him somewhere to the left of his nose, then darted off in the wake of the cheese-bearers with a determined expression on her face. Alistair stared after her, the spot on his cheek where her lips had been burning like a brand.
Now that the caravan had been readied, the rest of the day was spent in preparations for the feast. The Arl was horrified at what his village had gone through while he – who should have been their first defender – had laid infirm. That morning he had attended a memorial service in the Chantry for those who had been lost in the village's defence; and now to reward the survivors' steadfast bravery, he was throwing open the doors of the castle. It was also intended to honour the Wardens and their guests, whose arrival had proven so fortuitous for Redcliffe.
Through sheer coincidence, the next day was also the first day of Umbralis and the festival of Satinalia. There would be food and music, warmth and hopefully some laughter – Eamon believed Alistair's warning about the approaching Blight, and knew that it would be the last such celebration for a while.
The kitchens were put to full use for the first time in weeks. All three great ovens had blazed from dawn, the head cook shouting orders until red in the face while sweat poured over his forehead. Gradually, the pantries and larders filled with all manner of traditional Fereldan dishes.
Inch by inch, the lower hall was transformed- long wooden tables had been brought up from storage and cleaned, holly hung from beams and tapestry hooks. The raised stone platform where the Arl would sit had been furnished with extra chairs for the Wardens and their guests. The Arlessa, distracted from her son by the opportunity to show off, ensured that some distinctly Orlesian elements were incorporated into both cuisine and décor.
Not all of the Wardens' companions were going to join them at the Arl's celebration, however. Sten, face contorting with disdain at such a public spectacle, had informed them that he would return on their departure the next morning, and promptly left. There was still no sign of Morrigan; who had flown down to the Wilds to check on the wellbeing of her mother and the spread of the Blight.
Zevran, whose native land of Antiva celebrated Satinalia with week-long debauchery, was slightly disappointed at the lack of masks and risqué garb. Lounging against the fireplace, he watched Alistair and a manservant carry a statue of Andraste up to the Arl's platform.
"No offence to our Maker's Bride," he commented, lip curling. "But why is She being brought up to witness the festivities? Is there to be no uproarious and wholly inappropriate behaviour? No fountains of wine? Not even any nude dancers?"
"Eamon is a pious man," retorted Alistair, lowering the statue behind the Arl's chair with a grunt. "Ferelden isn't like Antiva."
Zevran rolled his eyes, his gaze drifting over to where Flora was staring up at a vast hanging tapestry. She was enthralled, wondering if it was large enough to carpet her parent's entire hut back in Herring.
"My Rialto lily, aren't you disappointed that there won't be the traditional Satinalia orgy later?"
Alistair resisted the urge to shove the lewd elf and his grinning face into the fireplace. Flora peered at him over her shoulder, her brow creasing.
"I don't know what that is," she said, dubiously, and Zevran's eyes lit up.
"Well, why don't you forget this provincial buffet, and come to my chamber instead so that Zevran may enlighten you? I'm sure the lay-sister will also be happy to oblige. She was more than eager to last night."
This was directed at Leliana, who was crossing the main hall with a brace of rabbits slung over her shoulder. She shot Zevran a poisonous look and the elf laughed.
"I will throw you in the fire," hissed Alistair, as his warden-sister's look of confusion deepened.
Flora, after been expelled from the kitchens for getting under too many feet, hoped to get back into the cook's favour by supplementing his ingredients. She spent the rest of the afternoon down by the lake, with the fishermen Bardon and Nat; far more comfortable on the dock with rod in hand than up in the big castle. The Arl still intimidated her by his social standing alone, and the Arlessa continued to cast ever more disdainful stares in her direction.
The jetty was still broken in the middle, where she had fallen into the water with the dead swarming on top of her. Averting her eyes, she squinted instead out at the far reaches of the Lake as it stretched northwards. For a moment she fancied that she saw the distant silhouette of Kinloch Hold, but then the sun moved behind the clouds and she realised that it was just a trick of the winter light.
"So, there's been rumours coming from the South," said Bardon measuredly, running his fingers through the tangled grey wires of his beard. "Nasty rumours. Refugees have started to arrive, passin' through. They're fleeing."
Flora finished reeling in her line and saw a juvenile mackerel flapping on the end of the hook. Feeling sorry for it; she pulled it free carefully and tossed it back into the still water.
"From Lothering?" she asked after a moment, and the old man nodded, eyeing her.
"They say that the Darkspawn are coming, lass."
For a moment Flora remembered the dream that had woken her in the tavern on the way to the Circle Tower – the Darkspawn swarming over the refugee camps like a flood of beetles, the Lothering Chantry bell pealing in despair, begging for aid which would never come.
She felt a cold trickle of fear slither down her spine at the same fate befalling Redcliffe, and every village and town in the whole of Ferelden. She wondered if the Orlesian Grey Wardens would bother to investigate why their neighbouring brethren had suddenly gone quiet; or if they would wait until the Blight was on the borders of Val Royeaux itself to act. Flora could not begin to comprehend the complex skeins of political rivalry woven between the different Orders; and she knew that even if Orlais was aware of the Blight, by the time they had assembled their own armies, it would be far too late for Ferelden.
Despite the clear and bright day, Flora suddenly felt the suffocating weight of responsibility on her shoulder. Losing concentration, she felt a sharp pain in her finger and realised that she had just sunk the tip of it into the fishhook.
Bardon noticed, and shook his head, giving her a stern look.
"You've got to watch yerself, lassie," he said, as she removed the hook and stared at the swelling bead of blood. It looked no different from before, despite the Darkspawn taint running through her veins.
She nodded, reflexively putting the finger into her mouth. Her cheeks began to glow, lit from within by the golden mist surging from beneath her tongue. Bardon reeled in another flapping salmon and tossed it in the wooden bucket at his feet. Fitting another lure, he cast out his line again.
"You won't be alone, at any rate," he said, glancing over at her again. "Ferelden itself will be at your back."
"Not if General Mac Tir has anything to do with it," muttered Flora gloomily, picking up a squirming maggot between newly mended finger and thumb and pressing it onto the hook. "He wants me and Alistair dead."
She cast the line out, watching her lure bob alongside Bardon's. Nat coughed, dropping a spratling on top of their catch.
"Well, the Arl will have a few words to say about that when he goes to Denerim."
Flora nodded, suddenly cheered. The fishermen's simple practicality reminded her of her father telling her younger self not to be so melodramatic, that if she took a deep breath, kept her chin up and eyes straight that all would be well.
"Deep breath, chin up, eyes straight," she said to herself, and Bardon nodded, reeling in his line as he felt a tug.
"Good advice, lassie."
OOC Author's Note: A bit on character motivation here - Flora is very empathetic, she's always felt secure in the love of her parents, and so Alistair's plight affects her a lot. She's still not got over her phobia of the nobility - she might be a Grey Warden, but she was only one for a month. She was a peasant at the bottom of the social scale for a lot longer! The advice from Flora's father - deep breath, chin up, eyes straight - is testament to his practicality, which inspires Flora to temper her own natural melodrama (I love that word). Also, lol, I did feel a bit disingenuous inserting a feast/dance at Redcliffe before carrying on to Orzammar - it's a bit like OK, YOU'VE JUST BEEN ATTACKED BY ZOMBIES BUT HERE'S A PARTY! But I felt like it might have been something that the Arl might do to revive spirits a bit in the village. And in game I'm still stuck in indecision about Bhelen vs Harrowmont...agh